First Private Practice fic, y'all! I'm pretty excited. I'm also kind of nervous and unsure. Oh well, I've gotta post what I've got and learn from my mistakes. This was kind of a freewrite to force myself to overcome my phobia about writing Charlotte.
Disclaimer: Private Practice is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.
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In any other situation, Cooper Freedman would have reacted differently to being slapped in the face. He would have felt degraded, perhaps, humiliated. Angry. Hurt. Embarrassed. Maybe even resigned or sorry, but only if he knew he deserved it.
But, in the place he was now? He just took it as another damn thing; another quirk. It was one of her habits, a kind of rough but hot habit that, by now, he was almost used to.
He's lying in bed, on the back, but he can't exactly feel the mattress beneath him. His chest is heaving; sweat has already broken out all over his body, mixing with the remnants of a trail of whipped cream that stretched from his breastbone to his navel. The heat of his body has made the sweetness melty and messy, and it's dripping from his obliques and hips onto the sheets.
A bit lower, Charlotte's perched on top of him in a straddle, fitting him completely inside of her. She pushes off with her knees, moving forward and backward, up and down with her hips in this spectacular way that makes him forget about the good crack to his face – the tingling and slick feelings radiating from the place where they're joined cancel it out to nothing more than a phantom sting and a faint red blossom just beneath his skin.
Her hands press heavily on the area just below his navel, resting on top of the slippery and sloppy mess that her dessert fetish (as Cooper had jokingly called it) had become. Her head is tilted backward, chin raised in the air. Her mouth opened and closed with pleasure noises, and, to anyone who did not know Charlotte King, it almost would have looked like it was in a pattern of prayer. A flush colors her delicate cheekbones. Her blonde bangs are darkened with sweat and stuck to her forehead, and she keeps squinting as the ends get caught in her eyelashes. Cooper would have reached up and brushed them out of the way if doing so wouldn't have earned him another slap for being "too tender" (he learns quickly).
It's awesome sex. Completely mind-blowing. He groans deep in his throat and his toes curl when she grinds her hips until they're completely perpendicular to his and stays there for a moment, breaking the rhythm. A self-satisfied smirk plays across her face at his reaction, before she moans herself.
This kind of raunchy, dirty, unemotional sex used to be all that Cooper wanted. Anything more and he would have fled. This would have been perfect for him and would have satisfied him completely.
Until now. When it doesn't.
He is in love with Charlotte King: the seether, the unendearing, prickly, bossy, cranky, Charlotte King. He's in love with her and would admit it to anyone if they asked. Well, he would admit it (and has admitted it) to Violet when she asked. He loves the fiery, sexy, naughty woman she is on the outside.
But, what he loves even more? The woman he knows she is underneath it all. The sensitive, caring, feeling Charlotte that he is sure exists. Trying to uncover it is the hard part. Trying to crack the veneer, the tough exterior, is like taking a flying, leaping body slam into a wall of aquarium glass. Most of the time, it is to no avail. She is hard, brittle; ends up getting snarky or offended or leaving in a huff. Only occasionally will his efforts and exhaustion and bruises be rewarded by the appearance of tiny spiderwebs in the glass.
And every tiny fracture is so worth it. They show that he is one step closer to breaking it down completely.
He wouldn't try so hard if he wasn't sure that she was capable of sensitivity. He has seen it, and the fact that each time it appears it's just a fleeting glimpse teases and tortures him. Still, he's seen it all the same.
He saw it in that bathroom when pregnancy was a possibility. It was during their breathless and nearly fond conversation about baby names, while he was picturing the children and would have damned if she hadn't been as well. They both saw them: the little blonde girl, tough, spunky, smart, with a devious smile was capable of both melting and breaking hearts. The little boy, shy, funny, clever, and his sweet eyes that were ready to charm anyone and everyone with their glimmer and depth. She had smiled when she mentioned the name Marjorie for a baby girl. That was the first real smile he'd seen on her, the kind that creeps on and pulls the mouth up at the corners with no conscious prompting of the muscle at all. And it was breathtaking.
He'd seen the other side of her on that plane ride home from Alabama, when she lost her composure somewhere over Nevada. She allowed Cooper to take her into his lap and there she bawled and trembled (and to think! Someone who seemed so intent on making others tremble could tremble herself) until she couldn't anymore. She showed it again when her grief for her father came through, promising to herself that if Big Daddy couldn't walk her down her marriage aisle, nobody could. It made both made his heart break for her and made him love her even more. She really was human. It seemed silly to even have to give her humanity a second thought.
It comes through every now and then, like the sun through a sky patched with dark clouds. He tries to run and bask in the rays before they disappear once again, which they always do. He gobbles up every inch she relinquishes, defeated. One day, he'll break her. One day, she'll become everything that she is and everything he wants. Cooper Freedman doesn't know a lot about real relationships, but from what he does know, you get out of one what you put into it. And someday, he's going to receive what his painstaking work deserves.
And, if that never happens? He doesn't think about that. Positive attitude determines a positive outcome, he thinks, even though Violet might argue.
Suddenly, Charlotte lets out a particularly urgent cry and arches her back, panting, and clenches around him in rapid succession. It drives him over the edge as well, cryong out and lifting his hips with the force of his orgasm and grabbing handfuls of the sheets.
Then, a shaft of sunlight breaks through.
Charlotte looks at him with softer, bluer eyes, influenced by the clarity of afterglow. She looks at him like she wants him and she wants to be with him and she wants the future. Cooper's lungs inflate, gasping involuntarily at the intensity of her gaze.
But, as quickly as it appeared, it hides behind another cloud. She collapses beside him, her lithe and sweaty body still pressed to his, and pats him on the chest harder than a lover would have. Out of breath, she tosses a lazy grin his way and drawls a "good job" before sighing heavily, resting her blonde-haired head on the pillow beside his, and closing her eyes.
With a sad smile, Cooper closes his too. Someday, he thinks.
She lets him hold her for about ten minutes before she groans uncomfortably, turns over, and squirms away from him. He wonders if ten minutes is a new record. It almost is.
It's almost enough.